


The Time Between Games

by missjustkeepwriting



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Hockey AU, M/M, criminal minds - Freeform, morgan/reid - Freeform, rating:PG-13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missjustkeepwriting/pseuds/missjustkeepwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hockey AU. Morgan and Reid meet at a gay bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Criminal Minds. Title is inspired by the Fred Shero quote, "We know that hockey is where we live, where we can best meet and overcome pain and wrong and death. Life is just a place where we spend time between games. " I have messed with Criminal Minds because this is an AU. However, the timeline of cases will be virtually the same. Seaver will fill Morgan’s place on the team. This takes place near the end of the second season because Morgan needs to be young enough to play hockey and I liked Reid more back then.

 

            Derek Morgan doesn’t go to a lot of gay bars. He knows the team’s publicist would skin him alive, but Mark, his college roommate, is worth it. He sits at the bar milking a Bud Light with his Chicago Bears hat pulled low over his eyes.  
                No one can recognize him, absolutely no one. Not that he thinks that many people in this bar are thinking about the Washington Capitals.  Especially since pre-season hasn’t even started yet and he wasn’t on the team last year, he is a new acquisition from the Ottawa Senators. But being the only black guy on the team does make you more noteworthy than most acquisitions, so you can never be too careful. As this thought crosses his mind, he pulls the brim of his cap lower. Because if he is at this bar, then that means anyone of these writhing men could be his biggest fan. That thought scares the shit out of him and he glances around looking for eyes that are looking at him less predatorily and more inquisitive. He doesn’t see anyone whose light has seemed to switch on to his identity and he slumps more heavily against the bar. He takes two long drags of the long neck bottle to calm his nerves.  
                He swivels on the stool and sips his beer as he watches Mark dance with a kid who can barely be legal. He wouldn’t be surprised if they suddenly disappear and Mark comes back with skewed clothes and his patented satisfied smirk. He swivels back, a deprecating smile on his face, and orders another round because Mark’s going to be awhile and he doesn’t need to be even remotely sober to deal with his friend’s blissed out attitude. If he can’t get off then fuck them. Which he feels apologetic about the minute he thinks it because Mark is the only reason he’s come close to accepting himself and the reason he got help after years of sexual abuse at the hands of Carl Buford. He doesn’t let his mind dwell on that; only long enough to remind himself that he can sit on this stool and let his friend get his dick sucked.  
                He’s almost laughing into his beer when an elegant-handed striped cuff comes into his peripheral vision. It’s attached to a young man with lanky hair. He’s also barely legal and looks uncomfortable as shit. Morgan feels a gut attraction to this man; he has an etherealness about him that makes him pretty. It makes him feel like a cheetah going after an injured impala.  
                Pretty Boy, as Morgan has dubbed him in his mind, is ordering a bourbon on the rocks and three cosmos; this intrigues Morgan even more until something in the crowd grabs Pretty Boy’s attention. There are three blonde women a few yards away from them giggling and swaying to the music. The one with the fluorescent flowers and fishnet stockings is gesturing to Pretty Boy and he looks consternate before his mouth turns up a little at the corner. He wraps fingers around the stems of the glasses and holds the bourbon in his right hand. It’s pretty impressive the dexterity he has with his fingers. Morgan wonders what else he can do with his fingers and his dick jumps a little in his pants, but he won’t pursue…right? He can’t take those risks.  
                But four more beers and he’s taking the risk. Pretty Boy is standing at the bar again, swaying slightly on his feet. He’s moving a quarter over his fingers but it keeps falling through his fingers and he stares irritably at his hand but snickers too.  
                “Hi,” Morgan says and he wants to smack himself in the head. He’s been doing this “picking up” thing for a while and the best he could come up with is “hi.” He doesn’t notice that Pretty Boy jumps a little.  
                “Hi,” Pretty Boy responds but has now become very interested in the ridges on the quarter.  
                “You have a way with money,” Yep, he’s definitely better at this when he’s picking up women. Maybe, it’s because he’s not as attracted to women.  
                “Did you know there are 119 reeds on a quarter?”  
                “119 what?”  
                “There are 119 ridges on a quarter; the ridges are called reeds. The interesting part is that a dime has nearly as many with 118 reeds, even though the dime’s circumference is almost one and a half times smaller than the quarter’s.”  
                “Oh,” Morgan says stupidly. He’s trying to process the information when Pretty Boy turns away and heads back to the table he’s been sitting at most of the night.  
                “Wait,” Morgan calls.  
                Pretty Boy turns back with a confused look on his face.  
                “Why do dimes and quarters have reeds but nickels and pennies don’t?”  
                Pretty Boy’s smile is sheepish and genuine.  
                “It’s because they used to be made out of silver and people would shave off small amounts and sell them. It wasn’t necessary for nickels and pennies because the metals weren’t worth the effort. It is also used by the visually impaired to tell the difference between the denominations.”  
                “You’re like Google.”  
                Pretty Boy looks slightly hurt and resigned. Morgan wonders about it; he thought it was a compliment. He smiles warmly at the man and Pretty Boy’s face relaxes into a half smile.  
                “So you’re…” Morgan trails off.  
                “While I’ve always considered my sexual orientation to be on a continuum, I am attracted to men. If that’s what you’re asking. But this is a bar that attracts mostly homosexual men and heterosexual females, right?”  
                “Well, yeah.”  
                “Well, then isn’t it easy to assume?”  
                “I don’t assume,” Morgan says gruffly.  
                “I’m sorry,” Pretty Boy says a minute later.  
                “It’s okay,” Morgan assures, “I’m Morgan…uh, Derek Morgan.”  
                “I’m Doctor Spencer Reid, uh Reid, uh Spencer. ”  
                “All right, Doc.”  
                Spencer grins. Morgan looks back and stares at Spencer’s face. His attraction only grows as he spends more time looking at the man. Spencer looks down at his lap, and Morgan puts a hand under the younger man’s chin and lifts it up.  
                “Do you know you’re very pretty?”  
                Spencer pulls his chin out of Morgan’s grasp and responds, “Usually men are offended by being described with feminine qualities; however, I know you meant it as a compliment.”  
                “Of course, I did,” Morgan knows he should leave it at that. He should let this pretty boy out of his life because he can already see him fucking this up. But he’s also never wanted to try with someone more than he wants to right now and so he throws the two of them into the mayhem.  
                “Thank you.”  
                “I’d like to meet up with you again,” Morgan says and Spencer drags in a sharp breath.  
                “Uh, I think I’d like that,” he stutters.

POV SWITCH

                “He asked me out,” Reid says succinctly as he returns to the table where JJ, Seaver, and Garcia are sitting, “I think.”  
                He gave Derek his phone number and they had chatted about what they liked to do a little bit longer before a brawny blond man had wrapped his arm around Derek’s neck and told him he was ready to go home. Derek had scoffed, introduced them, and told the other man he was going to have to wait until he finished his beer. Reid had walked away when the other man had started regaling them with stories of pounding into a twink’s mouth, his words not Reid’s.  
                Garcia squeals and jumps up and down, Seaver scans Derek like he’s an unsub, and JJ slaps Reid on the back. Garcia calls for a cheers and Reid can feel the blush creeping into his cheeks. He holds up his third bourbon and swallows down the rest of the contents. He’s not sure if he should be offended or elated that Garcia thought him getting a potential date was worthy of a cheers, but because he’s been drinking he accepts it for the good place he hopes it’s coming from.  
                “What’s his name? Where does he live? What does he like to do?”  
                “Derek Morgan. He just moved to Alexandria. He likes to jog with his dog, Clooney.”  
                “Holy shit,” JJ whispers under her breath. Reid almost misses it under the bass thumping             .  
                “What?” Seaver demands before Reid can.  
                “If it’s the same Derek Morgan,” JJ mumbles and then continues, “I think that’s the new defenseman for the Washington Capitals. They got him from the Senators. He’s known for keeping the action away from the goal and somewhat for being an enforcer. But his defensive skills are much better than his enforcer skills.”  
                They stare at her silently, eyebrows moving towards their noses.  
                “What? I like hockey too.”  
                “Okay,” Seaver drawls.  
                “So a gay hockey player,” Garcia titters; the legs of her bar stool dancing on the floor.  
                “I don’t think he’s out,” JJ adds.  
                “What? Why?” Garcia questions accusatorily like JJ had crushed every one of her dreams.  
                “I would’ve heard about that,” JJ says, “It’s a big deal in professional sports.”  
                “It shouldn’t be,” Seaver scoffs.  
                “While you may be correct, it doesn’t mean it isn’t. Reid, this may not be a good idea.”  
                And Reid feels the same way. He’s already had a relationship where his partner tried to keep him, their relationship, and his status a secret. He doesn’t know if he was up for another round of being hidden away, especially after his recent detox from dilaudid. His anxiety had sky-rocketed during his withdrawal and he was just learning how to control it. Not to mention that the last time he’d had a closeted relationship he’d been so anxious that he would reveal it in conversation that he had stopped socializing altogether. He had been so isolated when they finally broke up that there was no one to pick up the pieces with him.  
                It had been the hardest time of his life when Ethan dumped him on the first day of academy training and ditched him. He’d been lucky to be able to throw himself into the training. Tasks he couldn’t easily complete like the obstacle courses and the shooting range practices had been a welcome distraction from the irrevocable pain of remembering Ethan and the love he had thought they’d shared.  
                They had started dating two weeks into Reid’s PhD in Chemistry at Cal Tech. Ethan had been completing a Master’s degree in Chemistry. They’d met at a departmental meeting and hit it off, but Ethan had to keep their relationship hidden because he had to keep his reputation as the ladies’ man of the department.  
                At the time he’d accepted it because he didn’t believe he was worthy of love. His mother had been going through an aggressively angry time because of an imbalance of her medication and being put in the sanatorium, and she had been telling him she’d hated him for the previous eighteen months. He’d been so deprived of love that he’d accepted any little morsel. Ethan had only allowed them to meet up at his apartment where they would eat takeout, talk about anything, listen to music, and most importantly, to Ethan, have sex.  
                “I’ll research him tomorrow,” Garcia says, almost triumphantly.  
                “When you’re sober,” Seaver laughs.  
                “When I’m sober,” Garcia agrees mock-somberly.  
                The idea of Garcia researching Derek sends him into a near panic attack. He shakes his head slowly.  
                “If Garcia doesn’t do her due diligence, you’ll just wonder what kind of things she could bring up,” Seaver apprises.  
                He nods.  
                The next morning Garcia lures him into her lair from the coffee station with the promise of cookies. In addition to the cookies, he is greeted by screen after screen of Derek Morgan. The man is even more handsome than he remembers.  
                “He seems to be a pretty upstanding guy,” Garcia says, “And he is one chocolate Adonis.”  
                Reid snickers.  
                “He donates a lot of his time to local afterschool programs, donates his money to a specific program in his hometown, Chicago, donates his money to police officers’ memorials, and always does the team charity events. Every guy on his teams has seemed to like him. There isn’t one even slightly negative comment about him by teammates or rivals. He seems like a great guy.”  
                “Okay, thanks Garcia.”  
                “That was the good news; the bad news is that he’s in Narnia.”  
                “What?”  
                “He’s so far in the closet; he’s in Narnia.”  
                And then the screens change. There’s blurry picture after blurry picture of Derek writhing with beautiful women and leaving clubs holding hands with model-esque women.  
                “He hasn’t come out; in fact, it seems that he’s purposefully not coming out.”  
                “He never said he was gay.”  
                “He asked you out,” Garcia exclaims.  
                “That doesn’t mean he can’t be bisexual or pansexual,” Reid says brusquely.  
                “I…” Garcia stutters; Reid doesn’t let her finish and walks out.  
                He already decided that he was going to hear Derek out; one date couldn’t hurt.  
                
 **  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan and Reid's first date.

Morgan tries to call Spencer’s number numerous times. He just can’t bring himself to press call. He’ll dial the number, stare at it on his screen, clear it, and put his phone away.  
                It’s not that he doesn’t want to make the call. It’s just that the circumstances are not ideal. He’s an in-the-closet hockey player with a new team in the nation’s capital. This isn’t the turn-your-head places he’s been in before that would leave him alone in his personal life as long as he made appearances at events. This is a place where he could very well get stalked around the city.  
He hasn’t even told the publicist he likes men as well as women. He’s sure she’ll freak. He always tells the publicist and owner just so there’s no surprises, but he always swears them to secrecy. He’s told a few teammates before, but he rarely shares openly. He finds it easier to just date women.  
It took him along time to admit he was bisexual; he always staunchly defended his heterosexuality. He won’t deny that he had on more than one occasion acted homophobic.  
Until he moved into Danielsen Hall at Boston University and met Mark, he could not admit that he even remotely considered men attractive.  
He had walked into his room and there had been Mark lying on his bed; his pride flag sitting on his desk. Morgan had gawked at it for a good minute before Mark coughed and glowered at him.  
“I hope that’s not a problem,” Mark had said with an edge of hostility.  
“Actually…” Morgan had begun but trailed off when Mark sent him another sharp look, “No, it should be fine as long as you keep your hands to yourself.”  
“You’re not my type,” Mark had laughed.  
Morgan had been pretty offended about the comment but couldn’t figure out why.  
After a few months of living together Morgan had realized that they had a lot in common. They had both flourished in high school athletics and academics. They were both mamas’ boys and they had played their respective fields in the dating world with ease.  
One night in late October, they had gotten shit-faced at a hockey party after a big win. They had stumbled home together, Morgan more drunk than Mark. Mark had been fumbling with his keys and trying to keep Morgan from falling, when his hand had moved to Morgan’s hip to keep him up.  
When he had finally got the door open, Morgan had pushed him against the door, and kissed him so hard Mark’s head reverberated off of the door.  
It had taken Mark a second before he could push Morgan away.  
“All right big guy,” Mark had said turning Morgan towards his bed, “I told you you’re not my type.”  
Morgan had grunted in response; Mark had maneuvered him to bed and went to bed himself.  
Morgan hadn’t been confronted until Monday after practice. Morgan had been lying on his bed reading his criminology textbook when Mark came in from his late Poli-Sci class.  
“What’s up?” Morgan had asked.  
“We gotta talk man.”  
“About what?”  
“About Saturday night.”  
“Dude, if I puked on your shit, I’m sorry, man. I’ll replace it, I swear.”  
“It’s not that.”  
“Okay, so what?”  
“You kissed me.”  
“Fuck no, I didn’t.”  
“Yeah, I was opening up the door and the next thing I knew I was against it and you were pressed against me.”  
“Bullshit, I bet you came on to me.”  
“Man, I told you you’re not my type.”  
“Whatever, you came onto me,” Morgan had yelled and walked out of the room.  
Mark hadn’t come after him, which was good. Morgan had felt like he wanted to punch something, and as he had walked, he had realized it wasn’t Mark’s fault. He had known that Mark had only been being a good friend. But he hadn’t wanted to admit that he was even slightly attracted to him or any man for that matter.  
He had walked around campus, ate at another dorm, and finally ended back in Danielsen Hall.  
“I don’t think you came onto me,” he had admitted resignedly when he walked into their room.  
Mark had just nodded.  
“Listen, I’m sorry for that.”  
“It’s okay; we were drunk.”  
“That doesn’t make it okay. I’m an asshole and I know it. I tried to take my fucked-up-ness out on you. You didn’t deserve that.”  
“Seriously, no harm, no foul. I just want you to admit to yourself that you like men and that’s okay.”  
“Please, don’t give me a pass.” He had choked out and then mumbled, “God he made me this.”  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”  
“Never mind.”  
“You can’t just say shit like that and not expect me to wonder.”  
“I shouldn’t have said it.”  
“You don’t have to tell me, but it seems like whatever it is needs to be shared. You sure as fuck don’t need to tell me, but you’d better think of telling someone.”  
“You’re as good as anyone.”  
Mark had just sat looking at him like he was ready for anything. Morgan had weighed the pros and cons in his mind and then started his story.  
“When I was ten my dad died, he got shot right in front of me.” Morgan had paused to take in Mark’s expression. Mark looked sympathetic but not so much that he was pitying Morgan. “After that I became a sort of hoodlum, so two summers later my momma signed me up for this youth football team through the youth center in our neighborhood. It turned out I was really good; my coach was this upstanding guy and he became this father-figure to me. I kept playing through the center and when I turned fourteen, my coach started inviting me up to his hunting cabin. At first, I thought I was this big shot ‘cause here I was going on special trips where he’d let me drink beer and shoot guns and shit. It was the best thing, until he started getting me so drunk that I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. We’d drink and then he’d start doing shit to me.”  
“Shit, man.”  
“I just; the thought of being with another man…” he had trailed off.  
Mark had just looked at him empathy seeping out of him.  
“When I start to like the idea of being with another guy, I think that maybe I deserved what he did to me. Maybe I was okay with him doing that to me. Maybe I did consent somehow. And maybe I’ll become him.”  
Morgan had put his head in his hands.  
“Don’t ever fucking think that. That man was not gay or bisexual or whatever the fuck; that man was a perverted pedophile who used children to get off. You’re nothing like him. Liking men does not make you like him.”  
“But kissing you when you were too drunk to consent does.”  
“Fuck, man,” he had breathed. “I… But you were drunk too and you stopped when I told you to.”  
“I should’ve asked; I should’ve had consent.”  
“Next time, I know you will, but what happened between us doesn’t make you him and liking men doesn’t make you him. Derek, if you like men, that’s okay and if you like women, that’s okay but don’t let some sick fuck rule your life.”  
“Easier said than done.”  
 “Then let me help you.”  
“Okay.”  
“I promise we can do this.”  
And from that moment on, Mark had kept his promise to help Morgan with his relationship issues. He had become as much as an anchor for Morgan as his momma and sisters.  
Just as Morgan clears the screen for the tenth time, his phone chirps with a text message.  
 _fucking call him,_ it reads.  
He smiles; Mark knows him eerily well. If it wasn’t for the fact that they aren’t attracted to each other and Mark’s hygiene habits irk him, they would make a great couple. They know each other so well.  
 _fuck off_ , he responds.  
 _i knew it_  
 _fuck you very much_  
 _just do it…aren’t you like a big nhl hockey player?_  
 _fine_  
 _fucking works every time_  
 _fuck you_  
He spitefully dials Spencer’s number. He almost hangs up because spitefully dialing someone’s number is about the most immature thing he’s done this week, but a rushed voice picks up the phone, “Hello?”  
“Hi, this is Derek Morgan. We met at…”  
“At the bar. I remember.”  
“Yeah, I was just calling to see if you’d like to get together sometime.”  
“As a date?”  
“Uh, yeah, I mean, I guess.”  
“It’s either or date or it’s not.”  
The man seems agitated and rushed. Morgan almost hangs up, but then he remembers the man’s hands and what thoughts of him and a hypothetical date with him has done to him over the last few days.  
“Yes, a date.”  
“Okay.”  
“How about this weekend?”  
“I’m out of town right now.”  
“Oh, okay.”  
“But maybe next week.”  
“Okay.”  
“I mentioned that I worked at Quantico, correct?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Well, I’m an FBI agent, I have a lot of cases, and they pop up randomly. I have no statistical data to explain the occurrence of our cases. It’s not easy for me to date.”  
“I can understand that.”  
“Okay.”  
“So how about you call me when you get in and we’ll go from there.”  
“All right.”  
“Good. I look forward to seeing you.”  
“Me too.”  
POV SWITCH  
                Reid’s phone trills at the most inopportune moments. He’s in the conference room with Hotch when his phone warbles. He excuses himself before he answers it. Derek sounds unconfident and hesitant, and Reid becomes immediately defensive because while Ethan was never unconfident his wariness to say date was always there.  
                Reid’s patience wanes and he comes off short because he doesn’t want history to repeat itself and this case with Frank and Gideon is harrowing to say the very least. But Reid starts to feel somewhat empathetic for Derek, when he realizes how much it sounds like Derek is trying to sort things out. He sounds unconfident and hesitant but not insincere. He promises to call and he does after they get back.  
                Derek offers to pick him up after work someday and Reid thinks that’s the best way for him not to back out. Derek takes him to a fancy French restaurant in Fredericksburg and he feels underdressed in his sweater vest. Reid flinches at the prices, but Derek has no hesitancy in recommending the most expensive items on the menu. He orders chicken while Derek orders crab. The older man is so confident in himself that it puts him at ease.  
                “So you’re an FBI agent?”  
                “Yes, I work for the BAU… the be..”  
                “The behavioral analysis unit.”  
                “Yes, how did you?”  
                “It was my second dream job.”  
                “And I assume you do your first?” Reid asks even though he knows.  
                “Yeah, I play hockey.”  
                “That’s the NHL, correct?”  
                “Yeah, I play for the Washington Capitals; they just picked me up from Ottawa.”  
                “That must be difficult being a gay man; professional sports aren’t always nice to gay men.”  
                Derek sputters, “Well, I’m not, I, uh.”  
                “You’re not out or you’re not gay?”  
                “Neither, listen, I’m a bisexual man who has never let on that he likes men to the professional sports world.”  
                “Then I don’t think this will work between us.”  
                “Don’t jump so fast, Pretty Boy, I promise I’ll make us work.”  
                Reid just nods and goes back to his food. They don’t talk about their relationship anymore or Derek’s job. They talk about police work and their childhoods. The trip back to DC is long but not unpleasant. Derek plays soft jazz music, they talk a little, but the silences aren’t uncomfortable. Reid is almost sad when they pull up in front of the brownstone he lives in.  
                “I had a wonderful time tonight,” Derek says as he stops in front of  Reid’s apartment.  
                “There is only a 1 in 8 chance that contact will be made after a first date,” Reid says quickly because he hates the newly awkward silence that looms.  
                “Trust me, Pretty Boy, there’s an 8 in 8 chance that I will contact you.”  
                Reid is taken aback and he knows it shows clearly on his face. Derek smiles and winks at him. He just sputters a little.  
                “May I kiss you?” Derek asks. Reid is even more taken aback by this request but nods quickly.  
                Derek cups his cheek and kisses him with just enough pressure. Reid leans further into it and revels in the dry lips and callused hand. Derek pulls away and smiles at him.  
                “I will be seeing you.”  
                “Good night.”  
                “’Night, Pretty Boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all who have recently started following me. I will finish It Tastes Like Grief. This has just been on my mind. I love feedback!


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